


Enjoined

by SegaBarrett



Category: Bloodline (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Cigarettes, M/M, PWP, References to Canon Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 06:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12475432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: It's always been Danny and Eric.





	Enjoined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Bloodline, and I make no money from this.

Danny and Eric always found their way back together, that much was certain. They were as two ships passing in the night, two ships that often joined up or anchored or whatever ships did when they were careening along an ocean or a river or a lake.

Danny loved and hated ships. 

He loved and hated Eric O’Bannon.

Eric was what Danny would be if he wasn’t a Rayburn, no, Eric was what Danny would be if he was allowed to run off free in the world and leave all of this baggage behind, no…

Eric was Eric O’Bannon, and he was faithful. So many of Danny’s memories, the pleasant ones (and so few were they) involved Eric.

He was affixed to him the way the cast had been. The cast that hadn’t been signed like the other kids, because Danny hadn’t broken his shoulder falling out of a tree or roughhousing with Eric or doing any other fun kid shit.

He had broken it losing everything.

***

Now, he hovers over the edge of the bed and he smokes as he looks at Eric O’Bannon. The man has curves on his face that intrigue Danny and infuriate him all at once – why is he still here? Can’t he send him on his way?

That is a cruel thought, after all it was Eric who peeked at his broken shoulder and didn’t make a comment, Eric who was always there when Danny’s parents were complete and absolute shit. He should appreciate Eric a lot more than he does.

But it’s hard to appreciate anything. It’s easier to bring the cigarette to his fingertips and flick the ash over them, wondering if he – if Danny Rayburn – will burn away if he lets it go on long enough, will fall into a big pile of ash and nothingness. 

He flicks another piece of ash off the side of the bed and pictures embers, the way they smolder and the way that if you can walk across them quickly enough, you won’t get burned. 

Sometimes he wants to get burned. 

He leaned in, pressing his lips roughly against Eric’s, panting into it and biting at his lip like he wanted to hurt him (does he? Or is it the reverse?). Eric acquiesced; he always did, always does. Why did Danny have to be born a Rayburn? Maybe if they switched spots, it could all be different… Maybe Eric could have had what it took to be a Rayburn and Danny would have been a passable O’Bannon.

Eric moaned, hands moving to Danny’s hips, smiling. They had always had this easy way about them, this way where they didn’t need words or anything else but could simply be.

Danny smiled too, but decided he didn’t like hearing Eric’s voice; not right then, at least. He pressed his hand over Eric’s mouth and pushed down, not cutting off the air but stifling him a little bit.

“All the things… I’m going to do to you,” he hissed into Eric’s ear with an anger he didn’t feel (not quite, not yet). But he could – things tended to change like that for Danny on a whim. One second he would be, not quite content but stable, and the second he wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream.

Or fuck.

He yanked off Eric’s shirt and winced at the burn it led to in his shoulder. He wouldn’t think about that for long, though, not tonight – he had the rest of his life to remember that angel on his shoulder, that albatross burning around his neck. 

Next his teeth traveled down the nape of Eric’s neck, across his collarbone and down to his nipple. He tongued that, gently, sliding under the bottom and taking it between his teeth and nipping down eagerly.

Eric O’Bannon tasted like sweat, Eric O’Bannon…

His own shirt came next, and he found a moment in which he seemed frozen in time staring down at his own form, wondering at it and how others saw him. How Eric saw him.

He could hear John’s voice in his head. “Don’t let me catch you hanging around with Eric fucking O’Bannon.”

He chuckled and kissed Eric again.

His father hated him, had always hated him, and would hate him even more if he ever found out about this. Maybe that was for the best – maybe it was better to just burn that bridge and never try and walk back over it. It hurt far more to hope for that family in the picture, to conjure it up in his mind and know that he could never have it due to some fundamental flaw in himself.

Maybe he could just push that flaw into Eric. O’Bannons weren’t supposed to be worth anything at all, were they? A Rayburn was supposed to always be perfect; nothing less than excellence was required of them. And Danny just could never do it.

He unzipped Eric’s pants and uncovered his mouth. Now, he wanted to hear him. Now, he could hear him, whispering his name, going, “Fuck, Danny… I need you right now. Give it to me, please…”

He wrapped his hands around Eric’s throat and squeezed, not wanting to hear the begging. It seemed undignified, almost. Eric’s bones felt soft in his grasp, malleable, and Danny breathed in the sweat (fear, was it, or was the other man getting off on this) that was building in little dots on Eric’s brow. When the other man’s eyes started to flicker, he let go, then continued on, yanking Eric’s pants off and then his own. 

There wasn’t anything to use, no time to stop for all of that, so Danny leaned his cock up against Eric’s back instead and began to rub. He wanted to mark him, to taste him, to forget everything he was and simply be a part of this moment.

A quiet moment, maybe. All he could hear now was the sound of both of them breathing in the dark – when had it gotten dark? Maybe as soon as the cigarettes had faded out, as soon as those little glimmers of light had been snuffed.

Such was being Danny Rayburn, surrounded by an ever-snuffed out little glimmer of light. 

He wrapped his hands around himself and let out a groan. He spilled something out of himself, something hot and warm and broken just like him, painting Eric with it and clutching his back as an unexpected flood of emotion ran through him.

He’d said a lot of things to Eric over all the time he had known him, and a lot of it had been like rattlesnake snaps, coming after the closest target without regard for who it might be. 

There was something he wanted to say, now, but why was it coming so much harder than all the “Eric, fuck offs, Eric you’re worthless, Eric, why can’t you even…”

“Danny? You okay?”

The words died in Danny’s throat and he shifted back up to sit with his legs overhanging the bed. 

“You got a cigarette, Eric?” he asked instead, and Eric handed him one. “Hand me a light.”


End file.
